Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 November 1890 — TO THE DREOS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TO THE DREOS.

BY MANDA L. CROCKER.

r HEY took him away from her rthen —away from f his mother. She was dead. With -one toil-worn hand t|h row- n wearily over her brown hair, she lay prone on the jioor comfortless cot; but she was weary no

more. She had toiled to the end of her hard row, and had come Anally to the resting place. The shackles of lal>or without recompense had fallen off suddenly, and the half-smile lingering on the thin, wasted features told that, groping in the unkind shadows, she had found at last the light shining across the sea. Death is not always an unkindness. Sometimes the cold, quiet clasp but cools a fevered brain, and soothes a soul longing for its undisturbed repose. Thus it found tbe weary mother, and it was well. So they took him—a tiny child—away from the arms, now no longer a shelter to his tender years. He m isted vigorously, clinging to the rigid hand, while he called piteously for mamma “to wake up.” The tears of pain and affright ran down his wan baby cheeks, and his long golden curls swept the dead mother’s face as he sobbed on the unanswering bosom. Had she thought of what might become of her boy ? They looked about the scantily furnished room for something, they hardly knew what. Yes; over there in the corner, on the table, lay a scrap of paper with a pencil by it. They took it up, and by the light of the sullen, gloomy morning read the last wish of the dead woman. “I have drank the cup of rue to the dregs,” she had written, “and although the roses wreathed its brim at first, the thorns bristled thickly when the petals dropped. You will find money in the table-drawer for my funeral expenses; bury me decently. Please find a friend for Bennie—a home, if possible—but a friend at least. He is four years old. His father, if sober, you will find at No. 10 Bum street. I'ou need not send for my husband, however, until I am under the sod, as I do not care to have him near me even in death. 1 have forgiven him, as far as possible, all the misery and sorrow he lias brought on us—his wife and child—but bury me before he comes. I do not expect to live until morning; my heart troubles me. To whoever reads this and finds me, I commend Bennie, poor, motherless Beupie! “Sadie Mathers.”

On searching the drawer the money was found hack in the corner in a blue china cup, and forthwith they set about arranging for the unfortunate woman’s burial. She evidently had seen better days. In the drawer, besides the money, were a heavy gold ring, a fine gold"chain, and an ebony work-box containing a costly locket. On opening the locket the faces of a young man and woman looked up to the beholder, happy and handsome. Between the miniatures reposed a note in a tine, delicate hand, saying: “Our pictures the day we were married. At the back of "each you will find mementos of what was once our beautiful home on the Hudton.” \\ ith trembling fingers the portraits were removed: beneath one was a lovely specimen of forget-me-not, and the other rested on a rose, withered and seen tie vs, of course, but sacred. The pictures were replaced with a sigh of sympathetic, sorrow for the lovely lace in the locket, with its happy smile and crown of curling hair. The face on the wretched cot was the same, only it had gone through the valeof sorrows, bathing itself in tears until all the beauty and vivacity had been washed out. Then there was another face: not a bad face in the main, yet there lurked a sort of daredevil!sra. in the eyes, and an easily-to-go-to-the-bad expression in the handsome face. Their “beautiful home on the Hudson.” And it had come to this? Lord! what adverse currents sweep us out of time occasionally. In spite of the admonition of the note, it was thought best to send for the huslmud. He coidd not grieve her now. And, perhaps, it was only humane consideratenoss. after all, to let him know' that “fc'adio” was dead. He came. His face grew white and he trembled w hen his eyes fell upon the shrouded form of his wife, but he went oyer and knelt down bv her, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, my God! my punishment is greater than I can bear!” he moaned. “Oh, Sadie! Sadie! if you only could say you forgive me—if you only could; but—never mind.” He got up, and a strange, resolute desperation swept over bis countenance. “Where’s Bennie?” he asked, in a strained, husky voice. “With friends,” he was answered. “Friends that will always keep him and do well by liim?” he asked anxiously. Having been assured in the affirmative, he drew his hat down over his eyes and went slowly out. shutting the door after him carefully. At evening he came back. “I have seen Bennie,” he said, wearily, “and that is all right. Now, let me w ateh with Sadie. When do you bury her ?” “In the morning, early.” He nodded to this and begged of them to leave him alone with her “an hour or so.” The attendants withdrew to an adjoining apartment and left the penitent husband alone w ith his dead. When they returned they found him kneeling by the dead Savtie, with his face buried in the shrouding on her bosom. They hesitated to disturb him but finally spoke kindly, saving that it wa3 now past midnight. He did not answer. They touched him gently on his shoulder to arouse him. but he heeded not. He was dead! “Hied of remorse,” said one. but the empty vial on the table labeled “poi-*-au” supplemented the speaker, and

told that he, too, had drank of the dregs; but his enp was of sin and remorse, while hers was of pain, privation aDd sorrow. This is a sad story, bnt common enough to the crowded tenement houses of onr prosperous, christianized cities, and I can assure the reader that it is a true sketch.